


I've Got You to Keep Me Warm

by missmichellebelle



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris has never had a hand massage, but he’s absolutely certain, as Darren begins to pull at his fingers, kneading at the meat of his palms, that that is exactly what he’s getting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Got You to Keep Me Warm

For Chris, there is nothing quite like getting bitten by a writing bug.

There are really no metaphors to describe it (and, for a writer, that’s no small thing), and it’s something that can go as quickly as it comes. It’s triggered by the strangest and most random things, and all of a sudden Chris’s fingers will practically twitch with the  _need_  to write. It doesn’t matter if it comes from some song he happens to hear in the car, or right in the middle of what seems like a perfectly normal conversation, or from the way the leaves of a tree cross and overlap to form lacing shadows on the sidewalk—Chris will suddenly fidget, overcome with an itch so great he can’t  _not_ scratch it.

This particular morning, there’s something in the way the sun shifts through the gap in his curtains and the dust swirls lazily through it, how the light isn’t exactly white but not exactly yellow, either. It hits him like a slap to the face, and he’s hardly awake before he’s grabbing his laptop off his nightstand and opening it. His eyes are still thick with sleep, and he smudges fingerprints all over his glasses as he fumbles to put them on (and then cleans them with the sleepworn cotton of his shirt).

He doesn’t even look at the time, because it’s not important. He blinks his eyes until the keys come into focus, opens a blank document, and lets the words flow.

*

If he had plans that day, Chris immediately forgets them. A part of him notes that, no, he’s not late for work—it’s a day off,  _blissfully_ —and he sort of has to pee, and he hasn’t eaten in twelve hours, but those things can wait.

The words are building up so quickly in his head that his fingers can hardly work fast enough, making him stumble over letters and grunt in dissatisfaction as he misspells words that he really shouldn’t be ( _mischeivously… mischhievously… god dammit, mischievously_ ).

He’s focused—he’s in his headspace, reality and time have honestly ceased to exist—and his eyes ache from staring at his computer screen so intently for so long (he should probably lower the brightness) when his bedroom door opens.

“Knock knock.”

It’s Darren, and really, it’s unnecessary to say that because he’s already opened the door.

“Hi,” Chris says shortly, frowning deeply as he misspells  _beginning_  ( _beging_  is not even a word).

“I knocked on your door. And rang the doorbell. Four times. So I let myself in.”

“Mmm.” Fuck, how did that letter end up capitalized?

“Brian’s food bowl was empty, so I filled it.”

“Mmm.”

“Fed the fish, too.”

“Mmm.”

“Painted a mural of your naked body on my car and drove around LA screaming I GET TO FUCK CHRIS COLFER!”

“Mmm.”

“ _Chris_.” The bed wobbles, and Chris’s laptop tilts on his knees. It’s a good change of angle, but his wrists probably won’t like it for very long. “How long have you been writing?”

“Huh?” Chris rubs at the slight pressure forming in his temple, eyebrows furrowed. “Dunno.”

“Did you forget that today was order-Chinese-food-and-marathon-Pixar-movies day?”

“Uh huh,” Chris mumbles, wondering how he keeps forgetting to put  _d_ ’s at the end of  _and_.

“And you know I don’t mind the bed rumpled look—like, you  _definitely_  know I don’t mind, you are intimately acquainted with the fact that I  _do not mind_ —but have you gotten out of bed at all? Eaten?”

Chris isn’t really sure if this is making sense, but he’s been stuck at this point for  _weeks_  and he finally has a breakthrough. It’s like running into a brick wall—how had he not  _seen_  it before? He smiles, biting on his lip and working it between his teeth.  _And then, and then, and then_.

“Chris, you’re  _freezing_.”

He’s vaguely aware of Darren’s hand curling around the bare skin of his bicep—it’s warm, and Chris shifts unconsciously into the touch. It feels nice, but it is sort of distracting, and Chris can’t stop now, needs to keep going.

“It’s time to stop.”

“What?” Chris’s hands halt, and he becomes aware—just for a moment—of how badly they ache, how empty his stomach feels, and  _shit_ , how long as he had to pee this badly? “No. I’m almost there, almost done, I just need to…” He just needs to keep going. Darren doesn’t understand. Darren doesn’t have the deadlines that Chris has, doesn’t have the pressure, doesn’t… He just doesn’t  _know_.

“You need to take a break. Just a little one.”

Chris does look up from his computer screen, but this time it’s to glare with as much annoyance and fire as he can muster at Darren.

“And I said  _no_. I’ll take a break when I want to,” he snaps. “So you might as well just  _leave_.” There’s a stab of regret the moment Chris says it, but the writing buzz that’s filled his head for the last god-knows how many hours pushes it away, agitates the headache Chris is trying to will away, and increases his frustration with Darren’s presence.

He snaps his attention back to the document, feeling a surge of panic when the words don’t start as easily. But then it’s there again, a rushing waterfall, and he wishes it would pour out of his brain and into his computer, because his hands are clumsy and the wires get crossed and sometimes things don’t come out the way he wants them to.

It’s so quiet that Chris is almost sure Darren has left, except then he feels a hand curling over his left one and immobilizing it.

“Wha—” He turns, and there’s Darren, face calm and strangely blank as he pulls Chris’s hand from the keyboard. It’s cold—Chris hadn’t really been paying attention to his hands, or fingers, or really  _anything_ , but his hands are cold. They feel numb and tight, like he needs to wiggle his fingers and crack every knuckle, stretch them out as wide as they’ll go. His wrists ache, too, and the pounding in his head becomes more pronounced.

Also, he’s thirsty.

“Darren.” He’s still annoyed, though. He’s writing, and Darren knows that writing is important to Chris. Can’t he just let him write?

But Darren doesn’t say anything, or let go of Chris’s hand. He sandwiches it instead between both of his, and the warmth of them is shocking but amazing. Darren rolls his knuckles against Chris’s palm,  twists his hand around to press with fingers and rub at the spots that are tense and locked up. He’s massaging at the muscle, making Chris’s entire arm feel limp, and at the same time pushing against the skin that stretches over the top of Chris’s hand, stroking warmth back into his fingers.

Chris has never had a hand massage, but he’s absolutely certain, as Darren begins to pull at his fingers, kneading at the meat of his palms, that that is exactly what he’s getting. He’s not even sure where Darren learned to  _do_  this, but he stopped wondering where Darren’s numerous talents came from quite some time ago. Now, he’s learned to just appreciate them for the gifts they sometimes are (other, more unfortunate times, he tries to forget some of them exist at all).

He doesn’t want it to stop, whines when Darren lets Chris’s hand fall against his thigh. But then Darren is carefully shifting the laptop off Chris’s legs, before taking up his other hand and repeating the process.

Chris’s head feels foggy with how  _good_  it feels (he might be making some inappropriate sounds, but sometimes Darren knows when  _not_  to comment and this appears to be one of those times), and he almost misses the way Darren starts to softly talk.

“How about, after this, we go downstairs.” Darren rubs at the soft, thin skin covering Chris’s wrist. “And I’ll make you something to eat. Then we can settle on the couch, and you can lay your head in my lap because I like being close to you.” Darren smiles. “And then you can write while I watch Ratatouille.”

“Ratatouille?”

“Vastly under appreciated,” Darren sniffs, and Chris lets loose a soft, sleepy smile. “What do you say?”

“Will you put on pajamas, too?” Chris’s hand pets at Darren’s jeans, and Darren leans forward, catching Chris with a kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“Is the answer to that question ever no?”

“When you’re naked and tired, you always seem pretty reluctant.”

Darren uses his hold of Chris’s hand to pull him forward, kissing him much harder the second time.

“I love you, but you are such a fucking smart ass.”


End file.
